


The Totally Clichéd Naked Cuddling Hypothermia Story

by ignipes



Category: Supernatural
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-10-13
Updated: 2006-10-13
Packaged: 2017-10-07 20:03:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/68741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ignipes/pseuds/ignipes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The title says it all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Totally Clichéd Naked Cuddling Hypothermia Story

The sleeping bags belonged to a couple of dead guys, but Sam was trying not to think about that.

He shoved the gear aside and spread out the sleeping pads and bags. "Dean, get in here." He zipped the sleeping bags together and turned around, shoved back the tent flap and leaned out. "Hey, man, get your ass in here before you freeze to death."

Dean was sitting on the wet sand outside the tent; his arms were wrapped around himself and his whole body was trembling. It had started raining again, just a light drizzle, but the wind was picking up and there was already water dripping from the end of Dean's nose.

"Dean, come on. It's freezing."

When he didn't move right away, Sam sighed impatiently and reached out, hooked his hands under Dean's armpits, and hauled him backward into the tent.

"Dude, what the hell?" Dean squirmed and batted Sam's hands away. His motions were slow and clumsy, and Sam felt his worry sharpen. "I'm not a baby."

"Then stop acting like one and take those soaking clothes off."

Dean glared at him, but he pulled his feet inside the tent and fumbled with the laces of his boots. Sam zipped the door shut just as a gust of wind and rain battered the nylon. The tent was flimsy and much too small -- he couldn't even move without knocking into Dean -- but it would keep them dry for the night.

Sam pulled off his shoes and stripped off his jacket. "Right, now get into--"

"I'm really fucking wet."

Glancing over his shoulder, Sam rolled his eyes, but his retort about Dean's amazing powers of observation died in his throat. Dean was still fumbling with his shoelaces, scowling at the knots as though nasty thoughts alone would untie them. It was hard to tell in the sickly green light through the nylon tent, but Dean looked far too pale, his freckles standing out against gray skin and his lips tinged with blue.

Sam reached over to untie Dean's boots and pull them off. "That's because you fell in the ocean, you moron, then walked around in the freezing rain for an hour." He kept his voice light, trying to hide his worry, even though he suspected Dean was too out of it to notice.

"I hate Maine," Dean replied petulantly through chattering teeth and labored breath. "I hate this f-f-f-fucking island."

After the last two days it certainly wasn't high on Sam's list of favorite places, but until the boat full of bird-watchers returned in the morning they were stuck. "We'll go someplace warm next," he promised. He unbuttoned Dean's jacket and tugged it off, pulled the soaking t-shirt over Dean's head and tossed it aside. "How's Florida sound?"

"I h-h-hate the ocean."

"Wow, aren't you cheerful today."

"This isn't n-nearly as much fun as the last t-t-time somebody took my clothes off."

Sam smiled grimly, ignoring the sudden twist in his stomach. That shithole bar in New Hampshire. Twins. Redheads. Baby blue '62 Thunderbird. Sam had been too annoyed to even ask if it was the car or the girls that got Dean all hot and bothered, and he figured it didn't much matter in the end. That was the worst thing about spending just about every moment of every day with his brother: he always knew exactly where Dean was and who Dean was with when he, Sam, was stuck back at the motel room eating stale pizza and watching crappy movies about killer bees on the Sci-Fi channel.

Sam shook his head and forced a laugh. "And you didn't even buy me a drink, you prick."

"You ask for Sex on the B-b-beach and I'm going to sh-shoot you."

"You don't stop squirming so I can take your jeans off and _I'm_ going to shoot _you_."

"D-d-damn, Sammy, all you had t-t-t-to do was ask."

Sam rolled his eyes, but his worry only grew stronger. Lame comebacks and insults aside, it was obvious that Dean was in pretty bad shape. His skin felt clammy to the touch, he was shivering so badly he wasn't even trying to keep still anymore, and he was limply letting Sam undress him like a ragdoll, not even trying to help anymore.

He quickly tugged down Dean's pants. Dean wasn't wearing any underwear -- it had been a few states since they'd done laundry -- and Sam winced sympathetically at the thought of wet jeans and sand and chafing.

"Alright," he said, setting the jeans aside and putting his hand under Dean's elbow. "Get in the sleeping bag."

"Yeah, 'k-k-kay." Dean shrugged his hand away half-heartedly but didn't move.

"Dean, man, c'mon, stay with me."

"It's c-c-cold."

"Yeah, I know," Sam said quietly. Complaints were one thing; hell, Dean's usual state of existence was bitching about something or other. But this didn't sound right. Dean wasn't supposed to sound this tired and distant. "But we'll get you warmed up. You have to get into the sleeping bag."

Or be this obedient. He didn't protest any further, just climbed into the zipped-together sleeping bags, still shivering violently, his breath shallow and fast. Sam hesitated for just a second, then stripped off his own cold, wet clothes and shoved them into a pile at the foot of the tent, moved the packs and boots aside so there was room for him to lie down beside Dean.

"Hey."

Sam glanced up. "What?"

Dean was watching him as he turned around, bumping into the side of the tent and Dean's legs and everything else in the tiny space as he tried to maneuver himself into the sleeping bag. Dean looked small and pale huddled down in the sleeping bags, and he was watching Sam through half-closed eyes. In spite of the cold, Sam felt himself flush, then immediately felt like an idiot. This was _Dean_, for chrissakes, and it wasn't like they hadn't undressed in front of each other and shared beds and clothes and everything else for their entire lives.

"Dean? Hey, are you--"

Closing his eyes, Dean smirked slightly. "The only g-g-good friend," he said, "is a warm friend."

Sam exhaled with relief and laughed. "Damn straight. First rule of wilderness survival. Now move over before you freeze to death."

Sam pushed him to the side and wriggled awkwardly into the zipped-together sleeping bags. He silently thanked whatever powers might be listening that the last two victims of the carnivorous puffins that stalked this island had been kind enough to leave their gear behind after they got eaten.

Dean's skin was too cold, like ice to the touch. Sam began to massage his limbs as best he could in the tight space. Dean didn't say anything, didn't move as Sam rubbed his arms and legs quickly, trying to warm him up. Sam could feel that he was trying to hold himself still, his muscles tense and rigid as he tried to stop shivering.

"I can't believe you fell in the ocean. In Maine. In October."

There was a huff of laughter. Dean's breath, at least, was warm against Sam's skin, and Sam could feel the words rumbling in his chest. "Those f-fucking birds. Their f-f-fault."

"Let me guess: they chased you into the water."

"I hate b-birds."

"All of them, or just the evil ones?"

"All of them."

He didn't know if he was imagining it, but Sam thought it was working, that Dean was warming up. "Yeah," he said, slowing his motions gradually. "Me too."

It was weird how familiar it felt, moving his palms and fingers over Dean's skin, rough and unsteady because he was more scared than he dared to admit. Day after day, month after month, fighting side by side, bleeding side by side, patching each other up, ice packs and stitches and bruises of every shape and size, always aware of each other's movements and breathing and grunts of pain and -- and before that, sleeping in the same bed for years, shoulders in a too-small space, legs and ice-cold feet pressed together, until Dean turned thirteen and declared that he was too old to share a bed with his brother anymore, said that he'd rather sleep on the floor and actually did for a week before Dad got the point.

Except for those nights when Sam woke with nightmares. Those nights, Dean never complained, and he never made Sam leave.

Fell in the fucking ocean. Could've froze to death, could've drowned and Sam wouldn't even have known because he was on the other side of the island--

"You fucking idiot," he whispered.

"Huh?"

"Nothing."

It was strange, Sam thought, because it wasn't strange at all.

He tried not to think about why it felt so nice.

It was getting dark and the rain was coming down harder, battering the walls of the tent and the trees outside. It was going to be a cold night. Dean was still shivering, but not as violently, and Sam could feel him begin to relax against him. Sam fell still for a moment, then wrapped his arms around and pulled him close.

Dean made an unintelligible noise and turned toward Sam, tucking his head under Sam's chin. Sam held his breath for a moment, letting Dean shift around and make himself comfortable, ignoring the sudden flutter of -- not nervousness, not worry, that was stupid, this was just like any other day they got chased by evil puffins and Dean got hypothermic from a swim in the ocean and they ended up huddling -- _cuddling_, whispered a traitorous little voice in his head -- in the sleeping bags left behind by a couple of campers who had likely been eaten by said evil puffins.

"Better?" Sam asked.

"You're warm," Dean mumbled. He was half asleep already, his face pressed against Sam's shoulder.

Sam closed his eyes, concentrated on the feel of Dean warm -- finally, _finally_ \-- and alive in his arms: the scrape of his stubble on Sam's skin, the movement of his lips as he spoke, the rise and fall of his chest and warm brush of his breath.

"Warm like a volcano," Dean added sleepily, "without lava."

Right. Just like any other day.


End file.
